A Chance Meeting
by SallyJetson
Summary: What would she do to feel alive?
1. Lost

**Author's Note:** I'm experimenting here so let me know what you think.

I'm creating a whole new genre called **_Worthwhile Angst in 3 Acts_**. That means it will be _worth your while_ to stick around until the third act.

Thank you to **MariaLisa** for the comments, beta'ing and the inspiration. Special thanks to **Peanut2lb** for the thumbs up on the _snippet_.

DISCLAIMERS: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the wonderful writers for CSI: NY. Any resemblance to scenes from the episodes is included for clarity and continuity and I do not claim any of those as my own work. However everything else is mine.

**A Chance Meeting **

**What would she do to feel alive? **

**I. ****Lost **

**_Teetering between nothing and everything _**

**_Desperate for a chance _**

****

****

"House merlot, please."

She smoothed her perspiring palms along the silky fabric of her dress, giving a visible start when her palms encountered bare, freshly-shaven skin halfway down her thighs. She rarely wore this flirty little chiffon number with its plunging neckline and lack of back.

"Thank you," she murmured as the bartender set a generously filled glass of wine in front of her.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror behind the array of colorfully labeled bottles of liquor, each promising its own brand of comfort for whatever ailed you. She grimaced in disdain as she took in her appearance; hair piled atop her head, tendrils curling seductively about her neck, lips falsely reddened, heavily mascaraed eyes, wide and vacant. This wasn't her. The diamond studded earrings slyly winked back at her as if to say, "We know what you're up to."

_What am I doing here? _

Suddenly, intense blue eyes, full of hurt and disbelief, loomed in her head as confused and angry words played in her ears. That's _why _she was here.

She frantically dug through her purse. _These evening bags are small enough; you'd think…. _

"This seat taken?" A beefy face puffed scotch into her face as an equally beefy body settled onto the bar stool next to her.

"Doesn't seem to be," she replied coolly, as she pointedly looked around at the myriad of empty stools flanking the bar.

"Dale Minick. I'm here at the sales conference, leading salesman in my region. How about you?"

"I was just leaving."

Ignoring the proffered slab of a hand, she snapped her bag shut, started toward the door and then remembered she hadn't paid for her drink. Of all the things she was, a thief wasn't one of them. _Small consolation_. She ducked into the hallway containing the payphones and restrooms and leaned back against the wall. As she let out a steadying breath, she wondered how long she'd have to hide out before she could return unhindered and pay.

She studied her immaculately polished nails, siren red tint mimicking that on her lips. Did she feel like a _siren_? She certainly looked the part --- desirable in a dangerous way --- but she didn't _feel_ the part. Actually, she didn't feel much of anything these days. Her calves began to cramp from standing too long in the black, stiletto heeled pumps. She peeked around the corner; the beefy salesman had moved on.

Slowly, to keep from stumbling at the cramping in her calves, she made her way back to the bar. She perched on the stool, relieved that her wine was as she had left it. She flexed and pointed her feet, the shapely calves bunching and releasing in response.

She raised the glass to her lips and froze.

Questioning eyes met hers from across the bar. She boldly continued, deliberately slowing her movements to give an air of nonchalance. The face hardened momentarily; then something flickered in his eyes as he raised a tumbler of amber colored liquid in a silent salute to her, before taking his own swallow.

The hardness on his face repelled her, but that flicker in his eyes beckoned her. Bag tucked under arm, curve of the glass cradled into the palm of her hand, she rose from her stool.

Halting beside him she heard the well worn line slip from her lips.

"This seat taken?"

He cocked his head toward the stool without looking at her.

"It's a free country."

He swallowed more of the amber colored liquid; his choice of respite for the evening.

As she settled herself on the stool she quickly noted the well-cut sport coat which emphasized the breadth of his shoulders; but her gaze stalled at his hand, staring at the ring on his finger.

He drummed his fingers against the tumbler as if trying to dislodge her stare. Suddenly he spoke.

"She's going through something right now."

The revelation startled her.

"I can't seem to get inside her head," he continued, "to help her, and it's…"

He tightened his hand into a fist and shrugged, letting the words hang.

Once again she stared, but this time at his throat, as it rippled in response to the liquid waving its way downward.

"And you?" he inquired, still not looking at her.

She sighed, screwing up her courage.

"I'm… I'm beat down by the day to day routine…feeling completely numb."

"Don't you have a way to… or someone who can relate, understand…"

"Yeah, yeah, that's what I thought, but…"

She fiddled with one of the stray curls at her neck. Her finger twined in and around the curl… again… and again.

"I think may be he's too close to it though. We, uh, work together." Her finger tightened into the curl.

"Isn't there a way..."

She cut him off abruptly.

"I need to get away… a complete break."

She gulped the ruby-red liquid. Too much. Tears pooled in her eyes as it burned its way down her throat. She placed the glass carefully on the bar.

"I don't know how to cut through the numbness," she said softly as she twirled the stem of the glass. "All I know is I want… need… to feel alive again."

He placed a hand on her wrist; a vaguely remembered warmth shot through her body.

Before she could lose her nerve she blurted out, "Do you have someplace we can go?"

For the first time since she had approached him, he looked at her. She didn't care that her face was a desperate mixture of raw pain and pleading expectation. His hand, on her wrist, had made her feel something, and she desperately needed to anchor herself to that. It was all she had at the moment.

He offered her nothing, just stood, threw a twenty on the bar and guided her, with a light hand at the small of her naked back, outside to a taxi.


	2. Searching

**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone for your comments on this piece. They have been overwhelming, encouraging and reaffriming. Thank you.

Hugs and thank you to **MariaLisa** for the encouragement and beta.

DISCLAIMERS: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the wonderful writers for CSI: NY. Any resemblance to scenes from the episodes is included for clarity and continuity and I do not claim any of those as my own work. However everything else is mine.

**II. Searching**

**_Grasping for a way _**

**_To restore it all to life _**

He saw the question in her eyes, but he ignored it. The man in the framed photo of the laughing couple was not him.

_So what? _

Their conversation at the bar had been brief and the taxi ride had been steeped in thundering silence with absolutely no physical contact whatsoever; no noses touching, no hands eagerly exploring; no murmurings of anticipated delights.

But he had felt her heat nonetheless, her desperate heat, the heat that was now begging to be released.

She turned away to lay her bag on the table and he closed the one-stride remaining between them, placing his hands on her bare shoulders; feeling her stiffen slightly. He brushed a thumb, persuasively, along the vertebrae of her neck until she swayed back into him.

He swept one hand down the length of her arm, intertwining fingers; open-mouth kiss on her shoulder, her neck, behind her ear; her perfumed scent surrounding him; her scant moan echoing encouragingly in his ears. His cupped her breast, the nipple taut through the almost sheer, silky fabric, fingers slipping underneath, gripping, stroking, until her head cradled back into his shoulder. He could see her eyes flutter close on the stroke and fly open again on the grip, glassy, entranced. He thrilled as she slipped deeper.

Fingering the hem; brushing bare skin; sliding in one, then two; she thrust against his hand. She was ready; he wouldn't wait. Without missing a thrust, he spun her around, back against the door, zipper released, plunging inside.

Palm to palm, hands secured above her head, he drove her soft curves against the door in cadence to her low-throated moans. His heat matching her own; realizing she was teetering; he tipped them, she fell taking him with her.

Forehead pressing against the unyielding wood; breath staggering out of sync with hers, he pushed away, swaying slightly on rubbery legs.

Eyes drowsed; lips pouted; their red sheen undisturbed; clothing intact; panties merely pushed aside at the crotch.

This was a _fuck_ befitting a bathroom stall.

Suddenly he felt disgust towards himself and anger towards her. It showed on his face but there was no masking it; he hurriedly turned away and zipped up.

Too late… he heard the resounding click of the door.

-----------------------------------

She felt the niggling guilt. She shouldn't have done it this way… just to feel something… to be alive. She had seen the disgust in his eyes; merely a pickup in a bar, an easy wall lay, no more than a fuck and run.

Then why was she returning…. like an alley cat to antifreeze?

A one-two knock, like a warm-up punch in the opening round, she stepped back to wait, her body anticipating, her mind recoiling.

One muscled arm stretched, hand settled on the top of the door; he stared, face unreadable.

Spouting yet another well-worn line; "Can I come in?"

Silence. A dropped arm and a step back. She brushed past him, halting at the back of a couch, eyeing the not-so-familiar surroundings from two nights ago.

The click of the door and she felt his breath on the back of her neck, steady and even, obviously unaffected.

But she was not steady; nor even; nor unaffected.

She waited, turning her head slightly to catch a glimpse of him from her peripheral vision but refusing to be the one to take the next step. She had come back. The ball was in his court now.

Finally, hands at her waist, tugging, freeing, one hand traveling, up, under her shirt, the other, down, below her waistband. Fingers tweaking, massaging; exploring folds, testing the waters. A flick of the wrist; a swish; pants pooled around her ankles.

A grunt, a gasp, immense pressure from behind, damn he filled her so full! Fingers intertwined bracing against the back of the couch, clutching at her waist. Strokes deliberate, pushing her closer then reeling her back, a pendulum whose arc was shortening on each swing until the moment of immobility; tumbling downward, trembling, feeling his collapse beside her.

Forcing fingers to manipulate, she skimmed her pants up over her hips. She was prepared this time; she wouldn't let herself look, to see the disgusted expression; to let him see her bliss at her complete surrender to him… like last time. She would only play the fool once.

A hand on her wrist; a moment to twist it out of his grasp; she was out the door and down the stairs.

She would not be back; she promised herself that. It wasn't worth it… just to feel alive.


	3. Found

**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone for reading and/or reviewing this piece. They have been overwhelming, encouraging and reaffriming. Thank you.

Hugs and thank you to **MariaLisa** for the encouragement and beta.

DISCLAIMERS: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and the wonderful writers for CSI: NY. Any resemblance to scenes from the episodes is included for clarity and continuity and I do not claim any of those as my own work. However everything else is mine.

**III. Found **

_**Choosing the right way **_

_**Will be the hardest task. **_

_**-Sally Jetson **_

A sharp rap at the door. She startled at seeing him… here. He looked about the same, perhaps angrier.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure," she shrugged, stepping back, "you live here too."

Snorting, turning to face her, wintry eyes glaring.

"That's not what you told me five days ago!"

Brown eyes snapped like a whip as she retorted, "I didn't tell you to leave, I said I needed time and space to…"

"Because you felt nothing!"

Face flushing in exasperation. "Because I felt numb… everything was overwhelming me… I didn't know what to do… my feelings were shutting down… I think… to protect myself."

Hands gesturing desperately. "Protect yourself! From what? From Me? Why couldn't you turn to me? Just talk it through with me…like we do at the lab?"

"Because this isn't a lab issue, Danny. It isn't something you can reduce to logical deduction and critical analysis."

A disgusted noise from the back of his throat.

"Oh sure… I get it now. But it _is_ something you can fix in a bar, right?"

She was so quick the crack registered in his ears before he felt the sting across his cheek.

Teeth clenched. "Do you feel something now, Lindsay? Did that make you cut through the numbness?"

Pit Bull ferocity; they eyed each other, he working his jaw, she massaging the palm of her hand with a thumb, neither willing to give the inch that would bridge the gap looming between them.

Finally he turned away, hands on hips, eyes toward the ceiling.

She sighed in capitulation and spoke softly, "Why did you speak to me as if you didn't know me?"

"What?" He looked back over his shoulder at her.

"That night in the bar; why did you speak to me as if you didn't know me?"

Turning with a sigh, hand skimming over hair. "'Cause I didn't… the makeup, the hair, the dress."

"You know that dress. It's one of your favorites." Palms together, fingers interlaced; pleading.

"Not the way you were wearing it… not for the reason you were wearing it. It screamed 'Step right up, get your easy fuck right here'."

The verbal slap splintered in her ears. Anger roiled.

"Don't- you- dare- speak to me like that!"

"Why not, Lindsay? Isn't that the way you like it? Crude… fast… impersonal… degrading."

"How dare you? You have no idea why I was in that bar?"

"Don't kid yourself, Lindsay. I'm a man and I can read it a mile away."

"You think so… well I'm a woman and I can _smell_ it a mile away! What were _you_ doing in that bar?"

"I wasn't looking forward to an evening in an empty, unfamiliar apartment. I was grabbing a drink to unwind, kill some time. Pure and simple."

"And maybe…just maybe… pick up a little company… to brighten up the empty, unfamiliar apartment." Chin tossed up in scorn.

"Why do you do that? Always make it into something that it's not." Disbelieving head shake.

"Why do you?" she challenged.

A slow breath through pursed lips then almost inaudibly,

"Fear."

"I don't understand," she murmured.

"Lindsay, there have only been two times I've been scared shitless. One was when I realized I loved you and I didn't think I'd ever measure up," he said, ticking one finger, then another, "and the other was when you said you felt nothing."

A closing step; fingers intertwined, eyes locked; a broken voice. "Danny…"

"Lindsay, do you know how hard it was to walk out of here that day? Go to a week-long, mind-numbing conference; give a presentation on the Hemming's case, sleep in a near-stranger's apartment because I wasn't welcome in my own."

Tears pooling in doe like eyes.

"Didn't you think I was scared too? When you stalked out of here… so angry. Why didn't _you stay_ to talk it through like we do at the lab?"

Eyes trained upward, voice resigned.

"Sometimes it's just not something you can reduce to logical deduction and critical analysis."

Small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Really?"

"Linds, why were you in the bar?" he asked softly, his eyes pleading for honesty.

"Gathering courage."

"For what?"

"To come talk it out with you."

"Then why the dress, the hair, the makeup?"

"What; didn't you like it?" she asked, slightly alarmed.

_Of all the responses… leave it to a woman to get totally distracted by the issue of looks. _

"Yeah, yeah, I loved it… it was hot… I mean it was fuckin' hot." He grinned deliriously at the memory.

Satisfied smile.

"So?"

Lashes sweeping downward. "Just a persuasion tactic."

"That's an understatement. You were so persuasive we went straight to the sex."

"Mmm… I have to admit the sex was…," hips grinding suggestively, "well…I mean it's never been like that before."

"You really liked it?" Hands sliding down, halting; buttressed by curving hips.

"I did," tongue tracing bristly jaw line, "but that's not how I _prefer_ it."

"How do you prefer it?"

"How about I show you?"

Hands pinning hands to hips; supple curves shuffling hard muscles back against the wall; lazy kisses rambling from cheek to chest.

A fostering sigh answered by a resonant groan.

"Damn Montana, I hope this involves a bed because frankly my back is killing me from those last two bouts."

"Getting old, Cowboy?"

"Hell no!"

Swinging her waif-like frame up into his arms, he strode down the hall, dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed, countering the bounce with his own weight as he stretched out beside her.

She giggled. Her fingers grazed across his scalp as they settled at the back of his neck.

"No," he murmured, fingers caressing her cheek, "I just want to be comfortable while I wind this out," lips and teeth teasing her bottom lip.

"…make you feel alive."

She gasped and arched as fingers found their mark below her waist.

And then she was lost in the feeling… of being alive.

**The Pendulum **

**Teetering between nothing and everything **

**Desperate for a chance **

**Grasping for a way **

**To restore it all to life **

**Choosing the right way **

**Will be the hardest task. **

**- Sally Jetson **


End file.
